


Winter

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Seasonal Affective Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: “It’s not even four, Geralt,” Jaskier continued, tugging the curtains closed with a grunt, “and it’s fucking dark. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.”He slumped onto the sofa, pulling up his legs and all but disappearing into the hoodie that he’d stolen from Geralt’s wardrobe a few months ago.Winter is here, and with every day that goes by where the sun sets a few minutes earlier, Jaskier feels worse. Geralt can't bring the sun back, but he's determined to help - even if it's just for one night.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 262





	Winter

Jaskier stared out of the window at the rain battering the glass.

“This is bollocks,” he said, with no feeling whatsoever.

Geralt peered over his shoulder. “Hmm.”

“It’s not even four _,_ Geralt,” Jaskier continued, tugging the curtains closed with a grunt, “and it’s fucking _dark_. Fuck this. Fuck all of this.”

He slumped onto the sofa, pulling up his legs and all but disappearing into the hoodie that he’d stolen from Geralt’s wardrobe a few months ago.

“Can’t believe they’re making me go into the office tomorrow,” he muttered, watching Geralt sit at the other end and boot up the Playstation, “it's _torture._ ”

“You’ll be alright,” said Geralt, as the console trilled its little start-up tune at them.

“Says _you_ ,” muttered Jaskier, “I can’t believe you get to work from home. S’not fair at all.”

He wriggled against the arm of the sofa, trying to get comfortable. His limbs felt heavy, his head fogged. He _hated_ feeling like this - like every movement was restricted, like he was moving through water whenever he tried to do anything. He’d been plodding along at work in a haze for nearly a month, his personal laptop relegated to Twitter and Youtube and not much else. He’d not opened his notebook - the lovely one Geralt had bought him for his birthday - in _weeks_. Even his hoodie - Geralt’s hoodie, really - was in need of a wash.

He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Jaskier stared unseeing at the TV as Geralt swiftly played through missions on his game. He needed to stand up. He needed to work - needed to _create_ \- but the impetus was gone, leaving only a niggling sense of guilt. It was a worrying feeling, like he was standing on a precipice, and as he listened to the atmospheric background music of Geralt’s game mingling with the rain still pissing down outside, he felt that familiar little grip of fear.

Maybe it _wasn’t_ just weather and stress and long, dark evenings. Maybe it was worse. Maybe it was forever, maybe it was _back_ , and even after Christmas and New Year and the final, much-needed end of winter it would _still_ be with him, pushing him down, perched on his shoulders and dogging his heels like a weighted shadow.

_That_ thought was too much to dwell on, and barely even thinking he slid down onto the cushion between him and Geralt, the top of his head pressing against Geralt’s leg, Geralt’s elbow digging into his scalp. He didn’t look up as his friend moved, letting him in beneath his arm. He wasn’t _quite_ resting his head in Geralt’s lap, but it was close, and the warmth of his skin and familiar smell of his shower gel was comforting. When Geralt’s character died - Jaskier watched as the little white skull and _You Are Dead_ message flashed up, along with the musical sting - he reached down, pressing a hand to Jaskier’s back as the game reloaded his last save, the fans humming noisily.

His fingers twitched against Jaskier’s back - not quite a gentle pat, but close enough.

“Sorry,” Jaskier muttered into the cracked leather of the sofa, “for being, you know. A wasteman.”

Geralt gave him a little squeeze, the stolen hoodie bunching beneath his hand. “You don’t need to apologise.”

“It’s just… it’s shit, isn’t it?”

“It being so dark?”

“Yeah. And it’s not like it’s even Christmas yet so I can’t go out and see all the nice twinkly lights and get all… Christmassy feeling. It’s just cold and shit.”

“Yeah,” Geralt agreed, his hand playing softly on Jaskier’s back.

Soon enough, the game loaded the last save point, and Geralt moved his hand away, swearing as he realised how far back the save was from whatever mission he’d been killed attempting to complete. Jaskier missed the touch immediately, but it was enough to just be close, to be _near_ to Geralt in warm silence.

He was aware, vaguely, that he was playing in dangerous territory. He was casually and easily affectionate with _all_ of his friends, and Geralt didn’t appear to have a problem with his continual closeness, but he didn’t harbour the same boiling feelings for them that he did for Geralt.

It was infuriating, really. As soon as winter had arrived and darkness had set in he’d been robbed of all else - left with a kind of continual, low-level boredom - but Geralt still ignited that little fire in him. If only it had numbed that, too, he could have better ignored the feeling.

At least he was too exhausted to do anything about it, he mused, as Geralt shifted next to him and swore as the _You Are Dead_ screen appeared once more.

He lay like that, head pressed against Geralt’s thigh, watching but not-watching the slow progression of the game, for perhaps an hour. When Geralt finally rage-quit and switched to Netflix, his eyes were beginning to droop.

“What d’you want for dinner?”

Geralt’s voice woke him, a little, and he twisted around on the sofa so he could lie on his back, looking up at him.

“Hrgh,” he said.

“I’ll take that as _whatever we’ve got in the freezer_ , shall I?”

Jaskier sighed. “Something easy.”

“Nuggets it is,” said Geralt. He rose to his feet, and Jaskier slid a little into the gap he left behind. “Come on.”

Ignoring his resisting body and leaden limbs, Jaskier sat up, head spinning slightly, then followed Geralt into the kitchen.

“At least it’s Friday tomorrow,” said Geralt, as Jaskier followed him slowly into the kitchen, his fingers fiddling with the too-long sleeves of the hoodie, “And then it’s the weekend.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier slouched against the counter-top as Geralt opened the freezer, pulling out bags.

“Take-out Friday, though,” Geralt continued, “And we can watch a movie if you like.”

“I don’t know if I’ve got the energy for a movie.”

“Something short, then. We’ll do a… a Disney. Or a Dreamworks.”

“But you _hate_ animated movies.”

“I don’t _hate_ them. And you’re, you know,” Geralt leaned over Jaskier to pull a roll of baking paper out of the cupboard behind him, and cut off a square before placing it on a tray, “feeling shitty. So you can choose.”

Jaskier watched as Geralt lined up the nuggets in neat little rows on the tray.

“Even _Megamind_?”

Geralt laughed, moving onto the bag of frozen chips. “Even _Megamind_.”

Jaskier considered this. “Alright,” he said, “Deal.”

“Good.” Geralt shoved the remaining chips back into the freezer. “Now move over, I need to get to the oven.”

Jaskier shuffled sideways, his socks sliding across the floor.

~

By the time Jaskier dragged himself downstairs the next morning, Geralt was already dressed, washing his bowl and mug from breakfast in the sink. Jaskier stumbled into the kitchen, still in his pyjamas. Without saying anything, Geralt leant over and clicked on the kettle.

“Hnng,” said Jaskier, pulling a mug out of the cupboard.

“When do you need to leave?” Said Geralt, moving out of the way so Jaskier could make himself a devastatingly strong coffee.

“Twenty minutes,” Jaskier yawned, piling sugar into the mug. “Why’re you up so early?”

“I _always_ get up this early.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

As the kettle boiled, Jaskier groaned, and slumped against Geralt’s arm. “I’m going to fall asleep on the tube and wake up in Barking.”

“Not if you drink that,” Geralt said, peering at the heaps of coffee and sugar in the mug.

“Shut up,” Jaskier sighed.

The kettle boiled, and he moved away. Geralt placed the bowl on the drying rack carefully as he watched Jaskier make his disgustingly sweet coffee. He seemed alright - if tired - but Geralt was aware that he’d been struggling since the clocks had changed a month or so ago. Coffee finally made, Jaskier shuffled back upstairs.

_Fuck_ , but he wished there was more he could do. He knew how Jaskier felt - or thought he did, at least - and knew there was no real _fix_ for this. It wasn’t like mending the curtains or figuring out the best way to stop the sun coming in so they could watch movies in the middle of the day: it wasn’t that easy.

He listened to the bathroom door click shut above him, and pulled his phone out, opening his messaging app.

_**Geralt: You still okay with me taking a half day?** _

_**Vesemir: All fine. We’re quiet anyway. Everything alright?** _

_**Geralt: Got a few things I need to sort out.** _

He wondered, for a moment, if he should tell Vesemir his plan. He knew his adopted father was fond of Jaskier - which still surprised him - and if he knew what he was planning to spend his afternoon doing he’d start probing him, _again_ , about the true nature of their relationship.

There _was_ no “true nature”. They weren’t secretly dating, or whatever Vesemir thought was going on. But of course when he _told_ his dad that, he always got the same response: _well why the hell not?_

“Because he doesn’t like me back” was a stupid, pathetic thing to say to your dad when you were in your thirties. He always gave him the same answer: _It’s just not like that._

Geralt wandered into the dining room and turned on his work-assigned laptop, drumming his fingers on the table as it slowly loaded. By the time it had turned on and opened all the programmes he needed, Jaskier had emerged from upstairs, hair brushed, finally dressed in his typical skinny jeans and a large, shapeless cable-knit jumper in red wool.

“What time will you be home?” He asked, as Jaskier sat on the bottom step and pulled on his boots.

“Half six, seven?” Jaskier guessed, tying his laces. “I’m hoping they’ll let me out early as it’s Friday…”

“Right, right,” said Geralt, trying to sound casual.

“How come?”

_Fuck._ “Just wondering what sort of time to order take-out for. Want me to get it for when you get back?”

Jaskier stood and pulled his backpack on. “That would be _delightful_. I’ll text you when I’m at Euston?”

“Alright.”

“Right,” Jaskier set his shoulders and gave Geralt a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll see you later. Have a good day.”

“Have a good day.”

And he was gone.

Geralt rushed back to his computer, and booted up the Argos website.

The cashier in Wilkos, Geralt decided, must have thought he was totally mad. The nice bloke in Argos had only laughed and asked if he was decorating early - which Geralt had simply gone along with - but as he laid out his shopping on the short conveyer belt he was distinctly aware that he might be being judged.

A selection of their cheapest, tattiest cushions, several bundles of fairy lights, two blankets… and two extremely large bags of pick’n’mix. She raised her eyebrows at him.

“Having a party?” She said, as Geralt shoved as much as he could into bags then placed his card in the machine.

“No,” said Geralt, quickly.

She raised her eyebrows at him, and he quickly punched in his pin number and rushed out of the shop before she could give him the receipt.

By the time Geralt got home, it was already half-dark outside, the streetlight at the end of their driveway flickering on as he pulled up. It took two trips to get everything out of the car, and he dumped his prizes in the middle of the living room, peering around to get a better mental picture of what it was he was about to do.

He grabbed the little bluetooth speaker that usually lived in the kitchen, hooked it to his phone and hit _play_ on the first album he could find on the homescreen.

“Right,” he said, to the empty room, clapping his hands together. “Okay.”

Several hours and an unimaginable amount of tape and drawing pins later, Geralt’s phone _pinged_ at him, the noise reverberating through the speakers. He unearthed himself from beneath a sheet and grabbed it, swiping the screen.

_**Jaskier: Omw, probably like 40 mins if the bus is on time. Pizza plssss.** _

He’d ended the message with a slew of love hearts. Jaskier ended _most_ of his messages with love hearts, but that didn’t stop Geralt from feeling fuzzy every time he did. He sent a quick reply and got back to work, now aware that he was under a tight deadline.

_Wait, shit. Pizza._ He quickly opened the take-out app, found their usual pizza place and put in an order to be delivered, with any luck, just after Jaskier got home. That done, he threw the phone down onto a cushion and continued ripping off strips of masking tape, a string of fairy lights balled in his other hand.

~

Jaskier leant against the window, feeling his teeth vibrate as the bus rumbled on. He had his headphones on but no music playing - he’d slipped them over his ears as a force of habit when he’d sat down, but had totally forgotten to hit play. He barely even noticed.

It was pitch black outside, and the streetlights flashed at him as the bus sped past. He’d be home soon, he reminded himself. Pizza, movie, bed. Easy. The office hadn’t even been that busy, and the work they’d needed him for had been simple, but he still felt bone tired. His legs ached, as they always did when he felt like this.

He could see the familiar glow of the chip-shop coming up, and pressed the button in front of him with a sharp _ting_. The bus slowed, and he maneuvered his way past a little old lady with a tartan shopping trolley and off the bus onto the quiet street. At least the walk from the bus stop to their house wasn’t too far.

As he approached, he noticed that the house looked suspiciously dark. The curtains were shut, but the usual bright yellow light that still managed to pour through them was gone, replaced with a dull orange glow. He strode up the drive, and was digging in his bag for his keys when the front door swung open.

He looked up to see Geralt.

“Are those your pyjamas?” It just slipped out. Geralt _never_ wore his pyjamas around the house.

“Yeah,” Geralt stepped aside as he came in, dumping his bag down and collapsing onto the stairs.

“Lucky for some, getting to lounge about all day…” Jaskier pulled off his boots, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice.

Geralt shut the front door behind him as Jaskier tossed his boots haphazardly towards the other shoes, before leaning back against the stairs.

“You should go get changed,” Geralt continued, leaning on the bannister and looking down at him.

Jaskier blinked. “What?”

“Go put your pyjamas on,” Geralt said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Have you gone mad?” Jaskier sat up, peering at him. “We can’t _both_ go mad at once, there’ll be no one left to do the washing up.”

“Just…” Geralt shuffled, and Jaskier realised with genuine surprise that he was _blushing_ , “just humour me, alright?”

“...alright.” He turned to go upstairs, then paused. “You _did_ order pizza, right?”

“Of course.”

“Hmm…”

Jaskier traipsed up into his bedroom and took off the clothes he’d worn to the office. Geralt _was_ acting weird. Perhaps he’d freaked him out with his continual moping. As he tugged his jeans off, he became convinced that was it: _anyone_ would be freaked out by it, and Geralt had been putting up with his increasingly depressed state for weeks. He was probably sick of him, or worse: worried about him.

He put on his pyjamas anyway. Whatever was going on, it _was_ intriguing, at least. It was better than being bored.

As he dressed, scrambling in his drawers for a pair of soft socks to replace the uncomfortable ones he’d worn with his boots, he heard the doorbell ring.

_Thank fuck for pizza_ , he thought, as he listened to Geralt greet the delivery driver and take the pizza through to the living room. He pulled on the socks, sat on the edge of his bed for a moment, then finally willed himself to stand and head back down.

Geralt was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. His expression was a little strained - perhaps he _was_ nervous. Jaskier felt a little stab of guilt. He shouldn’t have let Geralt know how shitty he was feeling.

“Okay,” said Geralt, more to himself than to Jaskier, “Right. So. Living room? You still want to watch a movie?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Sure.”

Geralt gestured to the living room door - which Jaskier suddenly realised was closed. Jaskier frowned at him, confused, pushed open the door, and--

“Oh. Oh, _Geralt_.”

It was transformed. Sheets had been hung from walls and ceiling, transforming the room into a soft, low-lit cave. They fenced off the space, making it perhaps half the size, cutting off the sofa and armchair completely. Jaskier ducked forwards, stooping to enter the little blanketed cave, and gasped again. The floor was covered in cushions - some that he recognised and some that he didn’t - as well as a couple of soft, plush-looking blankets. Geralt had managed to drape one of the sheets over the back of the TV, making it part of the fort.

And hanging from the sagging ceiling, utterly defying physics, were strings of fairy lights. They draped against the sheets, pooled across the blankets, trailed beneath the TV. The pizza boxes were on the floor, and next to them a four-pack of Jaskier’s favourite cheap beer, and next to _that_ were two enormous bags of pick’n’mix.

“Is it alright?”

Jaskier turned. Geralt had followed him, stooping so as not to hit his head on the sheets.

He wanted to say yes - wanted to gush about how amazing it was, how soft and sweet and lovely - but the sudden, unexpected gesture was too much.

He burst into tears.

“Shit, Jaskier!” Geralt stumbled forwards, pulling him into an awkward, slightly rough hug. “Sorry, is it weird? Is it too much?”

“No, I just…” Jaskier managed to extract an arm and rubbed uselessly at his eyes, “It _is_ too much, you mad person… it’s amazing.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Jaskier sniffed noisily against Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get snot on you, Geralt…”

Geralt released him, backing away. Jaskier knew he must look a state, with his red eyes and running nose, but Geralt only smiled at him.

“I just…” Geralt started, fumbling over his words, “I wanted to… you said about the Christmas lights, and…”

Jaskier laughed. He couldn’t help it. “It’s amazing. Really. You’re far too nice to me…”

“No I’m not.”

“You _are_ , I’ve been such a pain, I don’t deserve--”

“Shut up,” Geralt cut him off quickly, “You _do_.”

Jaskier sniffed again, feeling stupid. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t… it’s incredible. How did you manage it?”

“Vesemir gave me a half day.”

“Hah!” Jaskier bumped at him with his shoulder. “Did you tell him why?”

“I didn’t.”

“Didn’t think he’d approve?”

“...not quite that. He’d… bother me about it.”

“Bother you?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Why? I thought he liked me?”

“He _does_ like you,” Geralt clarified.

“...But?”

“But _nothing_. It’s silly. He gets... weird.”

Jaskier smiled. “Like father like son, then.” He gazed around at the fort once more, in awe. “I genuinely can’t believe you did this,” he said, “maybe I _did_ fall asleep on the tube, and this is all a dream. I’m about to wake up in Barking.”

“I can pinch you if you want.”

“ _Please_ do not.”

Jaskier reached over to the nearest box and flipped it open. The smell of fresh pizza filled the tiny space, and his stomach rumbled. He grabbed a slice then leaned back against where he presumed the sofa was, concealed behind sheets and cushions.

“One more thing…”

Geralt leaned across him and grabbed the TV remote and Playstation controller from beneath the TV stand. He turned both on, and the screen lit up the tent in bright light for a moment before showing the DVD menu screen for-

“ _Megamind_! You remembered!”

“I _did_ promise. Unfortunately for me.”

“Oh, don’t be such a bore, Geralt. You should let the glory of animated movies into your life more.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt pressed play and tossed the controller aside before grabbing a slice of pizza and settling next to Jaskier. Their shoulders pressed together, and Jaskier felt that familiar spark of _something_ once more, made brighter and more intense by Geralt’s sudden little act of kindness.

When they’d eaten enough, Geralt took the leftover pizza into the kitchen while Jaskier paused the movie and set to making a nest from the cushions. Geralt made his way back under the make-shift sheet door, and Jaskier gestured at him to sit beside him before covering them both with one of the new fluffy blankets. He leant against Geralt’s arm, too warm and comfortable to care if his affections were unwanted or inappropriate. Geralt froze beneath him for a second, and then - slowly, tentatively - placed his arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, tugging him closer.

The movie played on, and Jaskier took a sip of now luke-warm beer. He could feel Geralt’s fingers against his arm, playing on his bare skin where the sleeve of his shirt had ridden up.

He felt - good. Not better. Not _great_. But good. In this tiny little space, with Geralt squished beside him and his arm wrapped around him like a shield, he could pretend the darkness outside was daylight. The feeling couldn’t last, he knew. But for now, it was enough. More than enough.

He snuggled lower against Geralt’s side till they were nearly horizontal, wondering at the way Geralt refused to let him go.

“Mmm,” he murmured, sleepily. “Love you, Geralt.”

Geralt’s grip tightened, just a fraction.

“Love you too, Jask.”


End file.
